


Threshold

by SculderMully



Series: My One Chance Out [1]
Category: The X-Files, Twin Peaks
Genre: Afterlife, Alien Abduction, Black Lodge, Christianity, Episode: s01e12 Fire, Episode: s01e16 Young At Heart, Fallen Angels, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Lies, Mystery, Open to Interpretation, Realization, Spiritual, Spoilers, Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 17:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10621407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SculderMully/pseuds/SculderMully
Summary: Mulder becomes obsessed with a strange case previously handled by an agent from his dreams. When the FBI refuses to let him re-open an investigation, he takes matters into his own hands, putting everything on the line in the hopes of ultimately discovering the truth about his missing sister.





	1. TEASER

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL:  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12433142/1/Threshold
> 
> This is the first draft. Expect a second draft sometime after Season 3 of "Twin Peaks" finishes airing.
> 
> If this gets enough impressions, and if y'all want it, I will make a "Missing Pieces" series. That and/or a sort of "Fire Walk With Me" companion prequel.
> 
> UPDATE 1 (4-12-17): Added work skin to distinguish "Courier New" slug-lines.  
> UPDATE 2 (9-4-17): Second draft update.
> 
> Comment, Kudos, Enjoy.
> 
> P.S. Sorry for the weird double-spacing formatting, it turned out fine on FF.net :P

* * *

 

 **TWIN PEAKS, WASHINGTON**

**FEBRUARY 24, 1989**

 

“Diane, 11:30 AM, February 24th. Entering the town of Twin Peaks; five miles south of the Canadian border, twelve miles west of the state line. I've never seen so many trees in my life. As W. C. Fields would say, ‘ _I'd rather be here than in Philadelphia_.’”

 

FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper was a nifty, eccentric young man of 34, 6-feet tall, slick black hair, track runner’s body. He wore a black, ironed suit, fitting the profile of the stereotypical G-man from the movies. In a way, that’s how he had always seen himself as a kid, a picturesque knight in shining armor, steel plates reflecting off the silver screen like brilliant daylight. The reality was less than spectacular.

 

Just hours earlier, homecoming queen Laura Palmer was found dead and wrapped in a plastic bag.

 

This was his first case of the year, an entire year following the murder of Teresa Banks, a similar case in Deer Meadow, Oregon. If it weren’t for the similarities between the two crime scenes, then Cooper would’ve never found himself in the hear-and-now.

 

Cooper was kind to the townsfolk and, for the most part, the townsfolk were kind to him. Newfound friendships, alliances, and loves were struck during his time in Twin Peaks.

 

In the time Cooper spent in-town, he had experienced both suspension and reinstatement from the Bureau.

 

On the night of March 27th, he entered the Black Lodge.

 

The morning of March 28th, Dale Cooper returned. But he was not _Dale Cooper_.

 

“ _How’s Annie? How’s Annie? How’s Annie? How’s Annie? How’s Annie? How’s Annie?”_

* * *

  **THE X-FILES**

 

**STARRING**

**DAVID DUCHOVNY  
GILLIAN ANDERSON **

 

**CREATED BY**

  **CHRIS CARTER**

 

**THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE**

* * *


	2. ACT I

****

**FBI HEADQUARTERS,**

****

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

****

**PRESENT DAY**

 

“We’ve looked at your progress...”

 

It’s the middle of the morning, and Dana Scully is already sitting facing Scott Blevins, the husky, thin-haired Division Chief of the illusive “X-files”; along with his skinnier look-alike crony who just jots down notes and asks all the obvious questions.

 

“And frankly, I believe you can do a lot better, as an investigator _and_ as a scientist,”  Blevins continued, “Agent Scully?”

 

Scully sighed, “With all due respect, sir, the exact nature of the X-files investigations are quite unlike any other in the FBI’s jurisdiction,” she pauses to catch her energetic, young breath, “it is my personal and professional opinion that the methods carried out by myself and Agent Mulder ad nauseam are very much standard operating procedure.”

 

Blevins was careful to chose his next words, “And while you yourself have reported, what was it, a record success rate, it is within the Bureau’s interest, in my professional opinion, that the ‘methods’ carried out thereby should not continue  in practice.”

 

The other man made note of this and let Blevins continue, “Agent Scully, you were brought into this division for a specific purpose and I suggest, as a concern, that you fulfill this purpose.”

 

“And what about Agent Mulder,” Scully asked, “what happens to him when my ‘purpose’ is ‘fulfilled’?”

 

“Agent Mulder will have had his time coming,” Blevins started, “after however many outbursts, the panel has already been having talks of removing Agent Mulder from the X-files division, shutting down the division, even talks of suspension – as long as he keeps this up.”

 

“Yes, I understand,” Scully said, for perhaps the first time ever, somewhat reluctantly.

 

Within seconds, Scully had already gathered her things and started out the door…

 

“Oh, and one other thing,” Blevins interrupted, holding up a dark green folder, “he can’t keep doing this, Agent Scully.”

 

Scully stopped and went in for the folder.

 

“Agent Mulder submitted this yesterday.”

 

Scully opened the folder, a 302. It has been disallowed.

 

“I already went ahead and disallowed it,” Blevins continued, “it’s nonsense.”

 

Scully paid little attention and kept the folder for later review. Blevins and the other man exchanged a strange look, perplexed at her unusual silence. Blevins stopped her one last time…

 

“Look out for yourself, Agent Scully,” Blevins said, “you’ll be looking out for the both of us.”

 

He winked. It was apparent, now, that Blevins had since lost any remaining shred of humility left in his body. This was his time.

 

On her way out, Scully had only stopped to smile at the chain smoker, who had just now appeared at the threshold of the office. He did not smile back.

 

“You’re late,” Blevins scolded.

 

...

 

It was now the end of the morning and Scully had finally made it back to the office downstairs. Just as she was opening the door she had expected to find everything intact: mismatched papers flung and strung, a jumbled bulletin board, the Buzz Aldrin poster, and Fox Mulder sitting proud above his findings.

 

Everything was intact. Except Mulder.

 

“Mulder?” Scully asked the air.

 

On command, the FBI bad boy Mulder came out from under his desk and approached her. There was something different about him today.

 

“Scully,” Mulder stopped to catch his breath, “where were you? I missed you this morning.”

 

Scully was visibly ashamed, even Mulder could see it.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

 

Nothing. Everything. Some things, a few things. All things at once, no things at all.

 

“I had a talk with Blevins,” she said quietly, disappointed.

 

“Well what did he say?”

 

“There was… talk…” she hesitated.

 

“They disallowed the 302, didn’t they?” Mulder gathered from her tone.

 

Scully slipped him the folder.

 

“Mulder, you can’t keep doing this, you _know_ it’s in their interest to shut down the X-files, you’re just giving them more reason to do so.”

 

“But they can’t, everything I’ve worked for would’ve been for nothing.” Mulder’s tone shifted slightly, showing an edge of agitation.

 

Scully only bowed her head in silence.

 

“I had a dream again,” Mulder took the folder back behind his desk, “a nightmare really.”

 

“Mulder,” Scully sighed.

 

“This is important, Scully,” Mulder motioned for her to come closer.

 

Scully leaned against the desk, looking in on what Mulder had to show her – the 302.

 

Inside the green folder were a series of photocopies of various forms, letters, and reports – evidence of something, _but what?_

 

“What kind of of dream was this?” Scully said, distracted.

 

“I was back home, I was a kid again, they took her again,” Mulder started.

 

Scully put her hand on his shoulder.

 

“I was in a room, there were red curtains covering the walls. There was a little man there, he was dancing. I just… watched him. There was a girl there too, a teenager, blonde hair, blue eyes.”

 

As Mulder continued, he had become more and more visibly shaken.

 

“And then I saw someone… someone I know I’ve seen before. And then he was gone, and the dream ended,” he paused, “I didn’t tell you about this before because I knew you wouldn’t believe me even otherwise.”

 

“Otherwise what?” Scully asked, “Mulder, after all we’ve been through, I don’t think I would’ve doubted you so soon.”

 

Mulder barely broke a smile, and got up to reach for something behind him. He returned with a number of files rubber-banded together. He set it on his desk and tore off the rubber bands, which almost snapped at his wrists. He opened the first folder and showed it to Scully, who was now locked in a stare down with a set of hazel eyes and neatly combed, black hair and, in large blue letters and a signature:

 

“ _DEPARTMENT of INVESTIGATION_

_FBI_

_SPECIAL AGENT_ DALE COOPER _.” _

 

“Mulder?” Scully lost the staring contest.

 

“That’s him, Scully, the man from my dream,” he let her look over a little more of the agent’s report before  continuing, and at the same time setting up the projector, “Special Agent Dale Bartholomew Cooper, born April 19 th , 1954, age 39, he was assigned to the Criminal Investigation Division  in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania – his hometown ...”

 

By now, the lights have been shut off and the projector ready and set, a wavering white light settling in the cool. The same image Scully has seen in the report is now projected onto the hanging screen.

 

“On February 24 th , 1989, Agent Cooper entered the town of Twin Peaks, Washington,” the slide clicks into place and a photograph of a sign on the side of a forested road, in view of the foggy mountains, stating, “WELCOME TO TWIN PEAKS” appears.

 

“Agent Cooper was sent to investigate the murder of homecoming queen Laura Palmer, age 17,” click, an image of a beautiful young girl, blonde hair, blue eyes, smiling, wearing a tiara and a small, white dress, standing against a gray, almost nonexistent backdrop, an unreality.

 

Mulder looked back at Scully, as if waiting for her to come to some conclusion. She didn’t, so he let her in on some details…

 

“The first time that dream came to me, I spent nights sifting through official reports and Bureau case files to try to find a match to the girl in my dream, then I cross-checked any girls who fit the description who may have been connected to Dale Cooper, and I stumbled upon her – it was the same girl from my dreams.”

 

“Mulder, it’s not uncommon that someone dreams up a real person that they’re never met,” Scully said halfheartedly, “something that could be a series of constants relating all mankind’s dreams, Jung called it the collective unconscious.”

 

“Does any of this look like a coincidence?” Mulder continued the slide.

 

The next image was of Laura Palmer’s body, face-up on the autopsy table, illuminated by blue-green fluorescent lights, making her appear deader than she already was.

 

Another click, now Laura Palmer was positioned face-down. A white sheet covered her from the top of her waist…

 

“Look closely,” Mulder said, pointing to a spot somewhere above her tailbone, “here.”

 

Scully stood up, walked up to the projector, and looked closer, and closer, closer still… two circular welts resembling mosquito bites. But she knew what they really were.

 

“It can’t be,” she said, astonished and nearly under her breath.

 

“Take a look at the girl who made it out alive,” Mulder changed to the next slide, of another teenage girl, red hair, “Ronette Pulaski, classmate of Laura Palmer… wandered out of the woods the morning of February 24th...”

 

Mulder went on to the next slide, a photograph of Ronette in the hospital, her gown lifted on one side exposing the lower-left side of her stomach – the same welts.

 

“Two teenage girls, gone missing in the middle of the night, one turns up dead, the other in a ‘waking coma’?” Mulder stopped and stared, “Any of this sound familiar to you, Scully?”

 

Scully was still processing all this.

 

“Of course _now_ both Laura Palmer and Ronette Pulaski’s whereabouts are accounted for the night of the 23 rd,” Mulder pointed out the remainder of the report, “The only truly spooky thing about this is that these girls too were in the class of ‘89.”

 

“But, Mulder, what’s there to investigate?” Scully asked.

 

“Didn’t you read the 302?” Mulder asked back, “I need to prove something.”

 

“Mulder,” Scully sighed mutely.

 

Mulder turned off the projector, flipped the lights back on, and pale day returned. He pulled Scully aside, back to where they were before the slideshow started, only now he towered above her.

 

“If there’s any chance that this will lead me to the truth… the truth about _her_ ,” Mulder started out slow, “then I need to follow up on this.”

 

“Even if this is it,” Scully stumbled, “there’s not a chance they’ll let us get away with whatever you plan on doing.”

 

“I decided I wanted to be honest with you about that, Dana,” Mulder put his hand on her shoulder, almost completely covering it, “I don’t have a plan this time. That’s why I need you on this.”

 

Dana almost smiled, but the fear of any tears held her back from it.

 

After a moment, Mulder stepped back and went for his coat, breaking the painful silence.

 

“Where are you going?”

  
“I have to run an errand,” he replied from not-so-far afar, reaching for the door…

 

“Mulder,” Scully stopped him; he looked up, “I want to believe this is the one, too.”

 

Mulder acknowledged and went out the door.

 

…

 

****

**FBI REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS**

****

**PHILADELPHIA, P.A.**

****

**4:26 P.M.**

 

A familiar sight and smell is in the air, it’s probably the polyester suits and the cheap coffee blend. The Philadelphia offices have little difference with the D.C. offices; unless you count the unfamiliar faces.

 

Mulder stops at the corner by the security camera, looks up, and moves on. Near the end of the corridor, he breathes a silent sigh of relief as he finally comes across the door he was looking for. Seeing as it’s slightly cracked open, he pushes against it to peer inside…

 

Everything is in place: a desk, a lamp, a clock hanging on the wall, scattered papers, the lot of it all.

 

“Excuse me, are you…?”

 

She’s sitting behind the desk, her vibrant, false red hair reflecting the mid-day sun.

 

She’s young, beautiful, bashful, lively, telling and true, thoughtful and understanding. There was almost nothing wrong with her. She was just perfect in every way except for her imperfections.

 

It’s Diane.

 

“Spooky Mulder, is that you?”

 

Mulder was only slightly embarrassed, “Still spooky.”

 

Diane got up from behind her desk to greet her distant friend.

 

“Hi, how long has it been?”

 

Mulder calculated, though nearly fumbled over bad memories, “Four.”

 

Diane could sense something was wrong, “I know they weren’t the best of times for you, but… the past is the past.”

 

Mulder just nodded and let her welcome him.

 

“So, coffee?” Diane asked politely and hospitably, walking back behind her desk, reaching for the pot resting on the bookshelf.

 

“Thank you, but I’m feeling a little restless today,” Mulder leaned back, hands gripping the edge of the desk behind him.

 

“Maybe some other time then,” was Diane being sincere or flirtatious today?

 

She was soon to drop whatever it was she was doing and joined Mulder in front of the desk.

 

“So, what made you show up _here_ after all these years, Spooky?” she had a tinge of humor in her voice.

 

“Actually, it’s about Dale Cooper,” Mulder said, silencing the silent laughter.

 

“Oh,” Diane knew, “what… what is it?”

 

Mulder breathed in, preparing to say many things at once, “Something’s finally come up,” he said, “but it’s not Cooper, it’s me… a dream...”

 

“A dream _about_ Cooper… about Twin Peaks,” Diane concluded.

 

“And Laura,” Mulder nearly shook, “Diane.”

 

“But that’s all it is – a dream.”

 

“How’s this,” he said, “I didn’t know who Laura Palmer was until _after_ I had this dream.”

 

Diane wondered for a moment, “How… exactly do you know Dale?”

 

“I don’t,” Mulder shrugged, “it’s like I’ve seen him before somewhere but I just don’t _know_ who he is.”

 

Diane put her hand on his shoulder.

 

Mulder lightly shrugged and stood up straight, “Why can’t I find anything on Cooper past March 28th?”

 

Diane had to think a moment and breath in before answering, “Before Cooper was suspended, he had kept a record on a set of tapes,” she recollected, “and after he was reinstated, he didn’t keep any further record.”

 

Mulder processed this, “Well, okay, then what about when he came back?”

 

Diane fiddled with her fingers, afraid of something, “He never came back.”

 

“And you don’t have any idea about his current whereabouts?”

 

“No one really questioned his… his going away,” she said, “there was no search, no notice, nothing… as if it was a normal occurrence.”

 

“Do you think any of this has to do with the Black Lodge?” Mulder asked, expecting Diane to know what the Black Lodge was.

 

“I don’t know, maybe, maybe not,” Diane must have known what it was after all.

 

“Diane,” Mulder approached slightly, “a year after Cooper came back, I stumbled upon a series of files pertaining to cases which the Bureau had classified as ‘unsolvable’.”

 

“The X-files?” Diane asked quickly.

 

“You know about them?” Mulder asked, astonished.

 

“Cooper may have mentioned them to me once or twice,” she said, “he told me they proved his theories… about all the evil in the world.”

 

“He’d be right,” Mulder replied, remembering all the things he’s seen since the reopening of the division.

 

“Well, is there _anything_ I can help with?” Diane asked.

 

“Can you help approve a 302?”

 

“You’re heading out to Twin Peaks?” Diane was only a little shocked.

 

“I know you want to figure this out as much as I do,” Mulder attempted, “but I _need_ to figure this out.”

 

“Is it about _her_?”

 

Mulder just nodded, allowing the silence to, again, have its way. Diane, on the other hand, did not. Instead, she headed back to her filing cabinets. Seconds later, following the sound of flipping papers, she returned with a folded map.

 

“It’s the least I can do,” Diane said, handing Mulder the map.

 

Mulder was on the verge of thanking her when she interjected again…

 

“Oh, damn it,” she said, “there is _one_ person I can probably think of that might be able to help, but don’t tell anybody this.”

 

She paused again, “I’ll give him a call, and see if he’s up to anything.”

 

Mulder breathed a sigh of relief, stared a moment, and smiled again, “Thank you.”

 

Diane smiled back and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek.

 

It would be the last time they spoke.

 

…

 

****

**8:42 P.M.**

 

The autumn sky was dark over Alexandria, leaving it up to the streetlamps to light the way home.

 

Mulder was already three blocks away from his apartment building.

 

Now the lamps felt distance, the ground shined from the storm runoff, and there may have been a white or gray van parked a few hundred feet ahead or behind. Owls hooted from the nearby park and dogs barked in the far-off distant backyards. Steam came up from the vent below and passed away like an already passed-away ghost.

 

There was only one thing not quite right about tonight…

 

“Mister Mulder,” a friendly, familiar old voice called from behind.

 

Mulder knew already who it was but could not help but be startled, turning around quickly.

 

Surely enough, it was him – Deep Throat.

 

“How long have you been following me?”

 

“How long have _they_ been following you?” Deep Throat asked.

 

“Who’s following me?”

 

“Does it really matter?” Deep Throat looked over his shoulder and pulled Mulder aside.

 

The older, balding man had lead them into an alley, diverting the main avenue and heading towards an open park area where they could talk in secret.

 

“I’ve been following you, Mister Mulder,” Deep Throat turned around again, “for a good five minutes.”

 

“Why were you following me?” Mulder asked.

 

“Don’t you have something to ask of me?”

 

“Wait,” Mulder stopped him, “how would you know anything about that?”

 

“I possess certain information,” Deep Throat started, “I know you headed out to Philly this afternoon for one.”

 

They continued their walk over to a secluded enough part of the city, between a park and an empty parking lot.

 

“Maybe you can help me, I would’ve went to you anyway,” Mulder said.

 

“Of course.” Deep Throat said politely.

 

“Does the name ‘Dale Cooper’ ring any bells?”

 

Deep Throat thought for a moment, or perhaps he was only pretending to as was per-expected of a guy like him…

 

“Dale Cooper… now that’s a name I haven’t heard in… quite a while.”

 

“Now how do _I_ know him?” Mulder asked.

 

Deep Throat shrugged, “I don’t know, how do you know him?”

 

“I had a dream about him,” Mulder said, “but it was like I recognized him without really knowing who he was.”

 

“Well,” Deep Throat shrugged again, “perhaps it’s a sign.”

 

“A sign of what?”

 

“Have you looked at all into this Dale Cooper character?”

 

“Yeah… yeah, I have,” Mulder meditated, “what do you know about the murders in Twin Peaks?”

 

“I was about to ask you the same thing, Mister Mulder,” Deep Throat tried to remember what he actually knew, “ _evil_ , Mulder, it’s only the manifest evil in this world that could possibly do such horrible things… though I admit...”

 

Deep Throat thought painfully for a whole five seconds before deciding to move on…

 

“Mister Mulder, what do you know of the Black Lodge?”

 

“It’s an old Nez Perce legend,” Mulder replied, “it’s a realm beyond our immediate reality where all spirits must pass through on the way to perfection.”

 

“Do you believe in purgatory, Mister Mulder?”

 

“I was raised a Protestant.”

 

“Presbyterian,” Deep Throat admitted, “but what if I told you that this ‘Black Lodge’ is a very really place indeed?”

 

“I don’t know, I’d have to check it out for myself,” Mulder said, “what do you know about it?”

 

“That information,” Deep Throat said, somewhat afraid, “I cannot divulge.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“There are certain forces at work here that would very much like their activities kept hidden from the public,” Deep Throat explained.

 

“And how are they stopping you?” Mulder asked.

 

“Mister Mulder, what do you know about a Project Blue Book?” Deep Throat inquired, sounding more like himself now.

 

“It’s the Air Force’s investigation into UFOs and their relation to national security issues,” Mulder explained, more excited than ever, “they disbanded it in 1969 and claimed any findings were not an issue… there wasn’t any mention of it in the Twin Peaks files.”

 

“Oh, they had good reason to remove any mention of a supposedly shut-down program delving into the art and studies of extraterrestrial spacecraft.”

 

“I looked at the autopsy reports and the scars on Ronette Pulaski,” Mulder said, “they’re the same scars we found on teenagers in Oregon last year.”

 

“And it _is_ no coincidence, Mulder,” Deep Throat said, shaking his head, “I trust you do intend to find out exactly what’s going on out in those woods?”

 

Mulder was clearly disappointed, “You know they disallowed another investigation?”

 

“Of course I do,” Deep Throat replied, “and unfortunately, I can’t help reverse the motion.”

 

“You can’t or you won’t?” Mulder’s agitation began to rise.

 

“Even if I could convince certain parties to allow for an investigation, it would still be against my better judgment, Mister Mulder,” Deep Throat explained, “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let anything happen to you and Agent Scully.”

 

Mulder reflected on this, but for only a short period, and admitted his ultimate motivation for opening an investigation...

 

“I need more information,” he said, “it’s the only hope I have for finding my sister.”

 

“Of course it is,” Deep Throat said with only a hint of jeer.

 

“Don’t mock me,” Mulder said bitterly, “I just want answers.”

 

“Answers don’t come without problems, Mister Mulder,” Deep Throat said sincerely.

 

“I have enough problems already,” Mulder said, “she’s been gone for twenty years, almost to the day.”

 

“And for all those years,” Deep Throat started, “you’ve never thought once to give in a little more time to your own life?”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“There are so much more important things to do.”

 

Mulder had nothing to say…

 

“Phillip Jeffries, Windom Earle, and Chester Desmond,” Deep Throat said.

 

Mulder could barely nod, but kept a mental note of those names.

 

“Goodnight, Fox.”

 

Within seconds, Deep Throat had already gone in the mists of steam and cold November air, leaving behind one little fox in the wake of the owls.

 

…

 

It was late, the weekend, and Mulder had found himself where he’d always find himself at this time – lying eyes dimming on the couch in front of Friday Night Movies, unchewed sunflower seeds spread all over his chest, two empty beer bottles lying on the floor by his shoulder.

 

He’d already finished reading up on Phillip Jeffries, Windom Earle, and Chester Desmond and had decided to just unwind.

 

In-between studying and relaxing, Mulder had already considered listening to the tape Phoebe had left him a few days earlier. Staring right through it and back at himself in it’s reflection, he ultimately decided not to pop it into the player. Ten to one, you can’t dance to it.

 

Several minutes more passed by until Mulder really started to feel his eyes closing on him. His head was already resting, so he didn’t nod off. The lights and sounds from the television had become dim and distant.

 

Slipping, slipping, darkness…

 

…

 

He’s back here again. This room, this dream. This world. This dreamworld. Those curtains, red curtains. That floor, zigzag floor. Was this a waiting room between two levels of consciousness? Of life and death? Perhaps Catholics had the right idea all along. Or no, this was only just a dream. A fateful dream at that, no denying.

 

There he was again, the midget, the dwarf, the little man from this other place. He was in the middle of his ritual side-to-side, snapping dance. A little to the left, a little to the right. Everything, everything is just alright. He wasn’t moving backwards, but the subtle inflections of his joints and hips suggested otherwise.

 

He sat up on the accent chair to the angle left of Mulder. This placement of furniture suggested that Mulder was the house guest.

 

Everything else; the other chair, the lamps, the Greco-Roman statue, was all in place. Except “Laura”, she was nowhere to be seen this time.

 

“She is very evil,” the Little Man said, “she is not who she says.”

 

His voice matched his unnatural movements: distraught, perplexing. It sounded as if he were talking backwards, only the words came out forwards.

 

Mulder just stared in disbelief.

 

“You have something for me?” the Little Man inquired.

 

Mulder stuck in his position of confusion.

 

The Little Man now had Phoebe’s tape in his hand, suddenly, as if Mulder had looked away and looked back. Only he didn’t.

 

“Ten to one you can’t dance to it,” the Little Man said, and laughed mockingly.

 

His laughter was a horrible, backwards-but-forwards cackle that made him sound asthmatic, gulping for air. His evil, contorted facial expressions didn’t help whatsoever.

 

Mulder still sat silently.

 

The Little Man now had a good three scoops of creamed corn settling like a pool in the palms of his hands. The tape was nowhere to be seen.

 

He smiled demonically again, and looked up at Mulder…

 

“Whet your appetite,” he said, “bite your tongue.”

 

Mulder may have blinked. The creamed corn was gone.

 

“Can I be your dweller?” the Little Man asked, “Will you be my threshold?”

 

Mulder became worried, knowing fully well what would happen if he had said ‘yes’, though he knew he would be safe just a little while longer since now the Man had come to him only in a dream – the next time would be in person.

 

“The tether has broken from its bonds,” the Little Man said, “I will be looking forward to our meeting, Agent Mulder.”

 

The Little Man got up once again and danced the horrible night away.


	3. ACT II

Amber stripes bounce outward through the plaster kitchen, leaving only corners shadowed. Brilliant reflections shine off glass surfaces. Silence and morning birds singing emulate an ambiance of peace and serenity. The clock indicated it was a little after six in the morning.

 

Dana Scully is just about done packing up a single suitcase. She’s finished breakfast, her shower, and has dressed. All that’s left to do is grab the worn, tan trench coat and head out the door.

  
It wasn’t usual for her to get up and ready this early, but neither were the reasons for her doing so.

 

By the time she had gotten downstairs and out the front door, Mulder had already shown up with his own suitcase and dark gray trench coat.

 

“Hey,” he said.

 

“Hi,” Scully said back.

 

A few moments of silence passed…

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mulder asked.

  
Scully thought for a moment, and nodded.

 

“You know you’re putting everything on the line, right?”

 

“I just want to know if you do,” Scully replied.

 

Mulder reflected on this for a moment before changing the subject, “Call the Seattle office, see if they can get a car for us.”

 

Scully nodded, making a mental note of this, and pulled out her cellphone.

 

Just in time, the cab that Mulder must’ve ordered out had arrived, pulling up hard on the curb, prompting the two agents to prepare getting going.

 

…

 

****

**SEATTLE, WASHINGTON**

****

**8:46 P.M.**

 

It’s raining, or rather it just stopped raining. It was just drips still dropping down from hanging pines. Those coats came in handy.

 

Mulder and Scully were now in the parking lot, finally setting out for their final destination. The drive from here to Twin Peaks was one of about six hours.

 

The suitcases were already sitting in the back seats of the gray sedan.

 

This morning, Mulder had sifted through his stuff looking for Phoebe’s last tape, to no avail. Again, just no, he’d made a second search, again, to no avail – again.

 

Giving up on finding the tape at the moment, Mulder moved on and opened the driver’s door when he noticed Scully was still standing outside on her side, arms crossed and looking downward.

 

“Having second thoughts already?” Mulder asked, concerned for a variety of reasons.

 

Scully looked up at him, arms still crossed, with another saddened look. It seemed ever since the meeting with Blevins, Dana had _only_ expressed sadness. And it was starting to get upsetting, not a day without her smile to light up and stop the sick and terrible world, if only for just a moment.

 

They exchanged a look for what felt like an eternity. Perhaps it was.

 

It finally clicked that they didn’t even have to speak. Fox knew exactly what was wrong, she was afraid. Of everything. He was too, but maybe she already knew that.

 

…

 

****

**TWIN PEAKS, WASHINGTON**

****

**3:13 P.M.**

 

The winding road was smooth to the touch of the peddle. Douglas firs on each end of the roadside touched the sky. A steep mountain engulfed in fog and freckled with snow towered over the horizon like a backdrop against the stage of the woods.

 

Mulder could feel another bend coming up, indicating it as the final bend on the State Route 21 before entering Twin Peaks. Seeing as there was no way but forward from here, he set the map aside, looking out instead for the ‘welcome sign’.

 

And there it was…

 

“ _Welcome to Twin Peaks,_ _population; 51,201_ ,” Mulder read.

  
To this, Scully looked up from her study to see the same sign she saw in the slideshow, clear as day.

 

“Actually it’s five-thousand one hundred twenty, point one,” Mulder indicated, “it’s a typo.”

 

Scully thought to question the decimal-point, but ultimately decided against doing so.

 

“If we think we have to stay a night,” Mulder said, “I’ll see if there’s a hotel or motel nearby.”

 

Mulder looked over at Scully again, who was still studying.

 

Before he could spit anything out, Scully looked up…

 

“Where exactly do you want to start?” she asked.

 

“Well,” Mulder explained, pulling a piece of paper out of his breast pocket, “I have a list of people I’ve been meaning to talk to.”

 

He handed the paper to Scully, who unfolded it and read off the names in her head:

 

_Sheriff Harold S. Truman_

_William Hayward, M.D._

_Deputy Thomas Hill_

_Major Garland Briggs_

_Margaret Coulson Lanterman_

_Ronette Pulaski_

 

When she was done, she handed the paper back to Mulder.

 

“Who are these people?” she asked.

 

“Anyone who would have substantial information,” Mulder said, putting the paper back in his pocket.

 

“And after that?”

 

“Then,” Mulder paused, not knowing exactly what to say, “I don’t know.”

 

…

 

Up on the left beside a park and facing down Frost Avenue was the Sheriff's Department, a long building with too many windows to count and a small stone ‘monument’ in front of it.

 

Mulder parked the sedan next to what he assumed was the Sheriff's personal vehicle: a black Bronco with the ‘Twin Peaks Sheriff's Department’ graphic emblazoned on the side of it.

 

Scully had finally pulled out her bag, carrying along any useful items she may need in the upcoming ‘interviews’. Mulder decided it was best to do the same. _Follow the leader_ , he thought.

 

Behind two sets of glass-paned double doors, they could almost see their first victim, a receptionist hiding behind a long glass window filling out paperwork. The nameplate set right in front of her indicated her as “LUCY MORAN”.

 

Lucy was about forty. She had blue eyes, beautiful though she looked as though she hadn’t slept all night and had just woken up from a desk-side nap. Her disorderly, curly blonde hair didn’t help sell the illusion that this wasn’t the case.

 

When she heard the second door swing open, she looked up like a deer in headlights on Quaaludes. It was probably the eyes.

 

At this point, Mulder could see a man in a khaki police uniform in the room with Lucy. He had a dark receding hairline which gave the illusion that his forehead was massive. Scully recognized him as “ANDY” from Cooper’s report.

 

The officer made a face similar to Lucy’s when looking up to see who had come in the door.

 

The two agents stopped and took the time to pull out their badges, unpredictably prompting their goofy doppelgangers to just stare, until…

 

“Sheriff Truman,” the officer yelled, getting up and leaving to another room, “Sheriff Truman!”

 

They lowered their badges slightly. Mulder smiled down at Scully, who looked up with a confused expression on her face.

 

Even three seconds later, they could still hear him calling for Truman in the distance. And from the hallway around the corner came another officer, a Native American man with long black hair and blue earrings. He had a stern, stoic countenance that contrasted with the two other… characters. This must’ve been “DEPUTY THOMAS HILL”.

 

“I suppose now the sheriff will _have_ to see you,” he said, rolling his eyes.

 

Mulder and Scully approached him, extending a hand, “Deputy Thomas Hill?”

 

“That would be me, yes,” he replied, shaking Mulder’s hand, “my friends call me Hawk.”

 

After shaking Mulder hand, Hawk moved in to shake Scully’s hand.

 

“I’m Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI,” Mulder said, “this is my partner.”

 

“Dana Scully,” she said.

 

“Nice to meet you two,” Hawk said, before realizing what was amiss, “FBI?”

 

Mulder and Scully exchanged looks, almost telepathically trying to figure out how to explain themselves. It wasn’t just that they _needed_ an explanation, but that so much was now at stake since they were here conducting unofficial business…

 

“Why did they send you?” Hawk asked quizzically.

 

Mulder stopped, not sure how to feel now that things were about to escalate.

 

Just before Hawk could say anything else, Andy had returned.

 

“Sheriff Truman won’t come out of his office,” he told Hawk from over his shoulder.

 

“I don’t know what to say,” Hawk sighed, “things have gotten a little out of hand.”

 

Mulder just kept shrugging to himself, trying to find by himself an answer to what was exactly going on here.

 

Scully only gave him a look of concern that suggested they turn back and go home before the weekend was over and before they got themselves into any more trouble than they’d now be facing.

 

Mulder, on the other hand, had other plans.

 

“We’re here investigating Special Agent Dale Cooper,” he said, “that name should sound familiar.”

 

“Coop,” Hawk inquired, “what happened to him?”

 

“Well apparently he wasn’t ever exactly the same since he returned home.”

 

Hawk thought for a moment, but couldn’t come up with anything.

 

“Listen,” he said, “things have been hard on Sheriff Truman, he’s turned to drinking.”

 

He leaned in as if telling a secret, “It was his girlfriend, she died under mysterious circumstances, it tore him apart.”

 

Mulder kept a mental note of this.

 

“I want to try talking with him,” Mulder said.

 

“You can try,” Hawk replied, “but let me warn you, there’s much pain and sorrow in his heart.”

 

Sheriff Truman’s office was just down the hall, which is exactly where Hawk led Mulder and Scully.

 

At the door, Hawk stopped, sighed, shrugged, and knocked.

 

A deep and slow, depressing wail came from behind the door, “Leave me alone!”

 

“Harry, open up,” Hawk called from this side, “the FBI is here to see you.”

 

They waited for a response…

 

After a few moments, Hawk turned to “the FBI”, about to say something when the door opened.

 

Sheriff Truman was in and out of their sights quickly. It seemed he’d went up to open the door and went back to sit down behind his desk.

 

The other three looked in. Hawk shrugged and let them inside.

 

“Thanks,” one of them may have said.

 

The door closed behind them.

 

Harry S. Truman, named for the president hanging on the wall, was the able-bodied cowboy type of law enforcer. He had short, curly brown hair and a face no one could forget. Everything about him seemed upright and firm except for what was obvious, and not only because the duo already knew this as a fact, he was an alcoholic.

 

Maybe it was his sluggishness, maybe it was his breath, maybe it was the obvious unwanted weight gain. Whatever it _was_ , it _was_ a serious problem, not only for himself and his work, but for Mulder’s work.

 

How they were going to deal with this was still beyond their immediate comprehension.

 

Mulder saw the portrait of Harry S. Truman on the wall right next to his shoulder, deciding to start out with an admittedly self-deprecating ‘joke’…

 

“So you are named after Harry S. Truman,” he started, “you know, he was in office during the Roswell incident.”

 

He smiled at Truman, “He believed in UFOs, you know?”

 

Sheriff Truman just stared downward, slumped in his chair, brandishing a bottle of bourbon.

 

“That’s funny,” he said low and slow, not quite amused whatsoever, before taking another drink straight from the bottle.

 

Scully was already sitting down in the chair facing Truman from across his desk. She said nothing.

 

“What’s all this about, anyway?” Truman asked.

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask about Special Agent Dale Cooper,” Mulder announced.

 

Truman looked up, “What about Coop?”

 

“Did you notice anything different about him after he left the Black Lodge?”

 

Truman breathed heavily through his nose, “He was awfully zany, but not in a good way.”

 

He finally looked up, “Does that help?”

 

Mulder and Scully looked at each other.

 

“You lost someone, didn’t you?” Mulder asked, knowing the answer.

 

“What’s any of that matter to you?” Truman asked before drinking again.

 

“I lost someone, and when I didn’t know what else to do I turned to smoking, but then one day I quit… I quit because I had a renewed purpose to find the answer to _why_.”

 

For a seemingly long moment, Truman said absolutely nothing, until…

 

“Loving her was my purpose,” Truman slurred, “and she’s gone.”

 

“Then find a new purpose,” Mulder said, “you’re the sheriff, you’re supposed to help people.”

 

“How am I supposed to help people if I can’t even help myself?”

 

Mulder didn’t have the answer.

 

“Come on, Scully,” Mulder said, defeated, motioning for them to leave.

 

Scully _almost_ hesitated.

 

At the threshold of the door, Mulder stopped and turned back around to the drunk sheriff.

 

“If you still love her,” he said, “then you’d still do what would make her happy, even if she is gone.”

 

Mulder admittedly didn’t know what he was talking about, and it felt as if saying these things would not work as well in real life as they did in the movies. But somehow he knew, and he knew that Harry knew, that he was right.

 

He was right.

 

Heading down the hallway, Mulder was going over all the scenarios of what would happen in perhaps the next week; assuming it would take so long to sort everything out…

 

“Mulder, I’m sorry,” Scully said.

 

“You won’t have to be,” Mulder said, “I think I have a plan.”

 

“Mulder, I looked at Jocelyn Packard’s autopsy report, if your plan has anything to do with exhuming her body, let me just make it clear that I don’t see that as a viable option.”

 

“Now that you mention it… no, I don’t want to get the snot kicked outta me.”

 

They’d approached reception. Mulder took out his list and showed it to Lucy without giving it to her…

 

“Excuse me,” he said, “can you, by any chance, grab these people for me?”

 

“Okay,” Lucy said in an unusually squeaky voice, ending on an even higher note, “I’ll write them down and call them… when will you be back to contact them?”

 

“Schedule them for tomorrow at… eight?” Mulder said, then looking at Scully for approval.

 

Lucy began writing things down.

 

“Are you hungry, Scully?”

 

Scully shrugged, perhaps agreeing.

 

“Do you know of any good places around town?” Mulder asked Lucy.

 

“There’s a diner on Falls Avenue,” she said, “everyone goes there.”

 

Mulder looked at Scully again, “Check in, leave our bags, go eat?”

 

Scully was too annoyed to deal with Mulder so she just nodded strangely.

 

“Will that be all?” Lucy asked.

 

“Yes, thanks,” Mulder said.

 

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Lucy addressed the two of them, mentally waving goodbye.

 

They left, leaving Lucy and Andy alone. And after a while...

  
“What do you think they’re here looking for, Lucy?” Andy asked slowly.

 

“I don’t know, Andy,” Lucy admitted.

 

Another six seconds of silence passed and Lucy looked at the list again…

 

“Who’s Margaret Lanterman?”

 

…

 

It was about twenty-five minutes after they’d left the Sheriff's Department. Mulder had just paid for two rooms at the Timber Falls Motel.

 

Scully was sitting on the bed of her motel room, laptop open. A blue sheen projected over her circular reading glasses.

 

She had opened the laptop here thinking she would have to write some kind of report on Mulder. She knew he would come knocking any moment, and that him knowing that she was writing another report would deal a significant blow to his trust of her. It wasn’t just because of the lack of time that stopped her from writing, it was the affluence of a moral fiber that was stopping her.

 

Maybe from now on she could write reports without mentioning Mulder’s behaviors and shortcomings. But then again, that’s about the position she was put in from the start.

 

Perhaps she made the wrong career choice.

 

Three knocks came at the door, signaling for Scully to close the laptop and set it aside for the afternoon.

 

…

 

Driving back up the road connecting the motel to the rest of the town, Mulder and Scully could see the edge of the dark forest. But they didn’t bother to. Instead, Mulder decided to take this time to recap…

 

“What do you think about all this so far, Scully?” he asked.

 

“Well,” she started, “you said you had a plan, so what is it?”

 

“I want to interview a few people,” Mulder listed, “then I want to crosscheck some facts and opinions about any UFO sightings in the area, their relation to the disappearances and murders, whatever connection Project Blue Book has to the Black Lodge, and a review of Samantha’s X-file, but first… I want a sandwich.”

 

He looked at Scully and back at the road to a surprise, a figure, breaking fast at the edge of the road.

 

“Mulder, what...” Scully veered off, startled.

 

Mulder bolted, turning off the engine, opening and closing the door, and was outside within two seconds and heading quickly into the woods. Naturally, Scully followed.

 

“Mulder!?”

 

The woods were dense and unforgiving here and Scully was already prone to tripping regularly over stumps and thickets.

 

“Mulder!”

 

Though she could barely see him, she could see that he was chasing someone – or something.

 

Mulder had reached a clearing, where a bit more sunshine came in from the dense treetops. He could see that just ahead the terrain reached a slight slope, or rather the clearing was a wide, slight ditch. Some rocks dotted the edge of the thick which could’ve been leading to a river or have been a tribal burial.

 

Among the trees, the rays of sun, the eerie wind, Mulder could nearly see clear now.

 

There was an overwhelming feeling inside that something beautiful was about to happen.

 

Rising, a crescendo.

 

From behind a tree she peeked to see the face of her long-lost lover, and he could only just stare back. She came out from behind the large tree to reveal herself. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a smile as radiant as the stars.

 

It’s Laura.

 

She’s so beautiful.

 

Please stay for a while, Laura, please, please stay.

 

But she’s leaving now.

 

A decrescendo. Falling, falling, falling, falling, falling…

 

“Mulder,” it was Dana.

 

Fox turned to her, and back into the woods.

 

She was gone.

 

…

 

Another half-hour had passed and they had finally made it to the diner.

 

Mulder went straight for the booth, without saying a word.

 

“Mulder,” Scully called out, “Mulder, talk to me, Mulder.”

 

She sat down next to him.

 

“Mulder,” she calmed, “what happened?”

 

Mulder tried to control his breathing, “I saw her, Scully,” he turned to her, intense, “in the woods, I saw her.”

 

“Samantha?” Scully asked, concerned.

 

“No,” Mulder said, “it was Laura.”

 

“Mulder,” Scully sensed his frustration, and knew arguing that what he saw was impossible was not a very good strategy. Instead, she just put her hand on his shoulder in an effort to comfort him.

 

About thirty seconds later, a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair, thick glasses, a sweater and dress, and a short log in her arms walked by the booth.

 

Scully could only look up at her with both concern _and_ confusion. In fact, she’d become so far accustomed to feeling as such for the past two days, she didn’t even have to force an expression.

 

The woman with the log came closer, close enough for Mulder to notice. He didn’t look twice.

 

“Margaret Lanterman?” Mulder asked.

 

“You saw something in the woods,” _apparently_ Margaret said, “didn’t you?”

 

Mulder stood up without standing up.

 

“What’s going on?” he asked urgently.

 

Margaret looked both ways before sitting down across the table from them.

 

“Who are you?” she asked.

 

“We’re with the FBI,” Mulder said.

 

“Is this about Agent Cooper?” Margaret asked, “I think I can help you.”

 

“Didn’t you get a call from the Sheriff's Department?”

 

“Why?” she asked.

 

“We’re meeting there at eight, tomorrow,” Mulder said.

 

“Then I’ll tell you all I know then,” Margaret said, “they can’t know I talked to you.”

 

She left in a hurry.

 

“Mulder,” Scully started, slow and perplexed, “what was all that about?”

 

…

 

Even hours later, Harry still sitting at his desk in agonizing silence and silent agony. It was just about time to go home and get some rest, and more drinks. Or maybe not tonight.

 

The Sheriff was at the door, almost out, when he turned to his right to see Lucy sorting out papers.

 

“Lucy,” he said.

 

Lucy looked up, “What is it, Sheriff Truman?”

 

He thought for a moment, “Let the boys know I’ll be arranging a meeting tomorrow at eight.”

 

“But, Sheriff Truman,” Lucy explained, “the people from the FBI want to bring in some people tomorrow at eight.”

 

“I know,” Harry said, “I’ll arrange for everyone to come in.”

 

“Alright,” Lucy said, “goodnight, Sheriff.”

 

“Goodnight, Lucy,” Harry was almost out now, “oh, and Lucy?”

 

Lucy looked up.

 

“We’re going to need a lot of donuts,” he said, began to exit, and stopped, “and coffee.”

 

…

 

Scully had her laptop open in front of her on the bed, glasses on, staring down a blue screen with white text. She read every word as it flashed onto the screen as she typed:

 

“ _Even after reviewing well over three-thousand pages of case file documents disproving Agent Mulder’s theories that the subsequent murders of Teresa Banks and Laura Palmer are connected to UFO and alien abduction phenomena, his belief in the coalition of such articles persists, mostly due to his own personal bias relating to the alleged abduction of his sister, Samantha Mulder from their home almost exactly twenty years ago, an event which itself has been well-documented, even as the subject of an X-file. Thus, it’s to be observed that Agent Mulder’s sheer obsession with his sister’s abduction has clouded his better judgment to accept alternative and more compelling answers to the questions asked in the X-files; a deeply ironic fact.”_

 

With this, she closed the laptop, set it aside, and crawled into bed. It only took her about a minute to fall asleep, a testament to how insane the whole day had been for her.

 

…

 

She awoke. But she was not awake.  
  
What was this place? This place looked familiar, or rather it _sounded_ familiar. It was like it was someone else’s dream. She knows: it was Mulder’s dream. The red curtains gave it away. Or perhaps it was Laura, dressed all in black. But in fact, it was the little dancing man who gave it away.

 

Somewhere in the distance, not here, not there, not anywhere, she thought she could hear, though very faint, jazz music playing. Maybe it was just her imagination, though really _all of this_ was her imagination. But was it? Did it feel real? Yes. Was it real? Yes, no, technically not, technically it was.

 

Everything here just went against her better judgment. She couldn’t quite accept this new world, this dreamworld, as there was nothing _compelling_ about it. However, it was quite _alternative_. How deeply ironic.

 

The Little Man danced like he was dancing to jazz music, perhaps she wasn’t losing her mind. How could she when here it was already lost?

 

After about a minute, the disturbing dance stopped. The Little Man sat down in the chair next to Scully’s. He rubbed his hands together.

 

Scully must’ve blinked because now, all of a sudden, the Little Man had a mirror in his hand and was stroking his balding head.

 

“Goddamn toupees are expensive,” he said, in inflections that matched those of a backwards recording.

 

He set the mirror down and looked up at Scully.

 

“I have no message from God,” he said, “but myself.”

 

Scully became distraught, and the Little Man sensed this.

 

“How rude of me not to introduce myself,” he said, and raised his arms, looking up.

 

Laura just stared at Scully and smiled.

 

The Little Man kept his position for a full five seconds before finally moving and spitting something out…

 

“Free yourself from superstition,” he said, whimsically, “heaven is locked for the sinful musician.”

 

He continued, “From above and below, his will we’ll bestow.”

 

“As darkness and light, do draw ever nearer,” he ended, “his reign is all smoke and mirrors.”

 

A poem, of course. He expected Scully to _interpret_ who he was. How brilliant.

 

The Little Man looked like he just remembered something, or rather thought of a way to cheer Scully up.

 

“Mosquitoes don’t bite me because I’m an alien,” he laughed, a horrendous cackle.

 

He was just mocking now.

 

Not-Laura looked as if she was about to sneeze, then she talked…

 

“Don’t listen to him,” she said, “he is actually an ox.”

 

“I am not an ox,” the Little Man replied, “that really is a terrible reference.”

 

Another moment passed by until Scully noticed a man behind ‘Laura’. He was skinny, Native American, had long gray hair, and wore a denim jacket.

 

The Little Man must’ve pretended not to notice him, though could not help himself when he noticed how shocked Scully was to see the other man. It was as if he fed on her fear.

 

“Bob,” the Little Man indicated, “the only thing he cares about is being number one.”

 

“Bob” didn’t talk. He only growled, drooled, and made a strange series of noises, as if speaking in a very different ‘language’.

 

The Little Man turned around and faced him, distraught, “I am no servant to you!”

 

He rolled his eyes, “Damn, what a horrible guy.”

 

Looking at the crowd now, Scully could see that the Little Man was clearly the most sharp, poignant, and even trustworthy of the bunch.

 

The Little Man must have, without a doubt, knew she thought so, so he turned himself even further into her favor by showing that he knew he was ‘different’ from the rest as well as establishing himself as the intellectual one, just as Scully distinguished herself from Mulder…

 

“Surrounded by morons,” he said, and laughed.

 

Somehow it took him a while, but just then, the Little Man noticed Scully was wearing a golden cross necklace. He nodded to himself, grinned, and reached for it.

 

Scully was in a dream, she couldn’t have controlled her actions – by which she made none, allowing for the Little Man to snatch her necklace.

 

“Like I said,” he said, “ _free yourself from superstition_.”

 

Scully said nothing, only stared frustrated and paralyzed.

 

“Humanity is under threat from the inside,” the Little Man said, hanging the cross right off his fingers, “consider yourself a threat.”

 

The Little Man’s aura of benevolence transfigured into one of malevolence, albeit a brooding one. He leaned in closer…

 

“Relay this message to Agent Mulder,” he said, “The Dark Haired Man told the truth, they turned the truth into a lie.”

 

He paused, leaned in even closer.

 

“Don't trust the blonde imposter.”

 

He allowed a window of time to open for Scully to take in and process the message.

 

The Little Man smiled again, “Enjoy yourself.”

 

With this, the Little Man got up once again, put the cross around his neck, and danced to the semi-imaginary jazz. He danced his little heart out.

 

It was terrible.

 

…

 

Three knocks had come and gone. It was Mulder on the other side of Scully’s motel door.

 

Scully had finally gotten finished dressing and getting her bag packed and now she was determined to leave the room.

 

She opened to face Mulder’s chest.

 

“Mulder,” she said, distressed, distracted, many things at once.

 

“Come on, Scully,” Mulder said, near oblivious.

 

Scully thought not to make an ordeal right now, so she followed him into the sedan.

 

…

 

****

**7:54 A.M.**

 

The conference room. Donuts are stacked, lined down the middle of the long table. Cups of coffee sit in front of nearly each seat.  A small video monitor is placed at the very end of the table, near the door.

 

Three civilians sit in the room:

 

Will Hayward, M.D., mid-sixties, gray hair, blue eyes. A stern and stoic face, much like Hawk’s. He’s a physician and coroner and one of the last people to speak with Dale Cooper in Twin Peaks.

 

Ronette Pulaski, twenty-one, long, permed brown hair. She survived the encounter with Laura Palmer’s killer and subsequently fell comatose. These facts lead up to Mulder’s belief that she was abducted by aliens.  _ She was not _ .

 

Margaret Lanterman,  early fifties, short, graying-blonde hair. Known as ‘the Log Lady’ around town. In 1947, she and two classmates disappeared into  the  woods without explanation. She has retained a marking on her right knee. Not comment on the log.

 

N one of them said anything.

 

A moment later, Sheriff Truman and Deputy Hawk were in the room. Another moment later, Andy entered. Then Lucy.

 

Harry took a seat at the very end of the table, near the door, to look over everything. He reserved two seats beside him for Agent Mulder and Agent Scully.

 

At exactly 7:58 A.M., they arrived.

 

“Is that everyone, Lucy?” Harry asked.

 

Lucy approached Harry and whispered something to him. Mulder noticed this.

 

Harry didn’t seem to be too pleased with that Lucy told him and consulted Mulder.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said first, “I didn’t get your names yesterday… I’m sorry about yesterday in particular.”

 

“Good to see you’re on your feet, Sheriff,” Mulder said, shaking his hand, “I’m Special Agent Fox Mulder, this is Special Agent Dana Scully.”

 

After they were acquainted, Harry pulled Mulder aside.

 

“You may have run into a slight problem,” he said, “Major Briggs died four years ago, the day Coop left Twin Peaks.”

 

“How did he die?” Mulder asked.

 

“A fire at his office, it was an accident.”

 

_It probably wasn’t an accident_ , Mulder thought to himself. Dirt is cleansed in fire.

 

“What exactly is it you do, Agent Mulder?” Harry asked, distracting Mulder from his laments and thoughts.

 

“I specialize in the investigation of crimes deemed unsolvable by the Bureau mainstream,” he explained, “using conventional investigatory methods and approached with an awareness of the paranormal.”

 

“Sounds like you have a lot to explain,” Harry said, “what happened to Coop?”

 

“Turned up back home, displayed irregular behavior, gone,” Mulder said, “I’m just about in the dark as you are.”

 

“Well, then we better get started.”

 

It’s 8:00 A.M., and Harry has moved into position.

 

“Alright,” he announced, “listen up…”

 

All eyes were on him now.

 

“These folks are with the FBI,” he continued, “now I want you all to be as truthful as possible when they ask you questions, a lot is at stake here.”

 

He motioned for them to introduce themselves.

 

They pulled out their badges.

 

“I’m Special Agent Fox Mulder.”  


“I’m Special Agent Dana Scully.”

 

“We’re here investigating the series of events that unfolded here following the death of homecoming queen Laura Palmer,” Mulder explained, “we understand and have fully updated ourselves regarding the earlier investigation by Special Agent Dale Cooper.”

 

Mulder motioned for Scully to unpack her instruments.

 

“This is a simple investigation,” Mulder further explained, “we ask questions, you answer them, we expect your full cooperation… once we are done asking all the questions we have for you, you may leave.”

 

Scully has set up her laptop, set out some documents filled with letters, photographs, evidence bags, and other articles, as well as tapes, video cassettes, and a notepad and pen. She has also asked Andy, who appears to be the sketch artist, to sit beside herself or Mulder when they ask questions pertaining to momentarily unknown persons, patterns, and the likes.

 

“Any questions?”

 

No.

 

Margaret raised her hand.

 

“Yes?” Mulder pointed her out.

 

“Does my log have to answer any questions?” she asked.

 

Mulder looked around for any guidance, and saw Hawk, who nodded his head in approval.

 

“Yes.”

 

After about another ten seconds, the PA system clicked somewhat unexpectedly, and a familiarly squeaky voice came over it.

 

“Sheriff Truman,” Lucy said, “Albert Rosenfield is here.”

 

“Albert?” Mulder, Scully, and Harry said, unintentionally, in unison.

 

Mulder and Scully looked at Harry and then at their company.

 

“Albert’s here too?” Harry asked.

 

“I’ll be right back,” Mulder addressed to everyone and left.

 

Scully followed closely after.

 

“Excuse us,” she told Harry.

 

Harry just shrugged.

 

Albert stood waiting by reception,  brief case in his hand. He wore the usual black suit, the one that Mulder thought made him look like a ‘Man in Black’.

 

“Albert?” Mulder asked rhetorically and excitedly.

 

“Spooky Mulder?” Albert’s exclamation was somewhere between shocked and delighted.

 

The two agents gave a manly, friendly handshake and laughed a little.

 

“Dana Scully,” Albert seemed to be having his lucky day, “you’re partners with Dana Scully?!”

 

“You two know each other?” Mulder asked.

 

“ _You two know each other_?” Scully asked back, only slightly annoyed.

 

“We worked on a case together,” Mulder explained.

 

“It was short,” Albert went on, “but memorable.”

 

“Scully?” Mulder inquired her.

 

“Albert may have taught me a few things here and there forensics-wise.”

 

“Come on,” Albert laughed, “you don’t think I was a better teacher than _the Iron Maiden_?”

 

“Spiller still giving you a hard time?”

 

“I tried being charming, Dana,” he said, “trust me.”

 

Albert laughed, Mulder giggled, and Scully laughed nervously through her teeth.

 

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” Scully said, half-whispering, pulling him aside.

 

In perfect timing, the laughter subsided and Scully began asking question…

 

“What’s he doing here?”

 

“I didn’t know it was going to be him,” Mulder kept his voice down a little, too, “Diane said she would send someone out here to _help us_.”

 

“Mulder, what help is he going to be to us?”

 

“Scully, this guy’s a forensics Sherlock Holmes on cocaine.”

 

“Mulder, Sherlock Holmes was already on cocaine.”

 

“Just give him a chance,” Mulder said, “I want all the help I can get.”

 

“And I want your face blowtorched off.”

 

Mulder just rolled his eyes and pulled Albert aside, “Hey, Albert.”

 

Once they were somewhat of a distance from Scully…

 

“What happened,” Mulder asked, “Diane said she would call you two days ago.”

 

“I had to pull some files,” Albert said, “it took longer than expected.”

 

“Well, what happened?”

  
“They upped the clearance level the day I asked for them to be pulled,” he went on, “it’s like they knew someone was trying to get them off the shelf. But I don’t know why anyone would want to keep this secret.”

 

“I might have some idea,” Mulder said, “where’s your team?”

 

“When I miraculously got cleared to pull the files, they disallowed my forms from passing.”

 

“Yeah,” Mulder admitted, “they did the same to me.”

 

“You think it has to do with the whole border-crossing shenanigans?”

 

“I think it’s something a whole lot fantastical than that.”

 

“You are treading on some very, _very_ dangerous ground here, Mulder.”

  
“I know what I’m doing.”

 

“It’s not ethical.”

 

“I think whatever it is I’m about to find goes way beyond what’s ethical.”

 

Albert was conflicted. Would he betray the oath he gave and face the loss of his career, and possibly even his life? Or would he betray the trust of his friend and the trust of all humankind?

 

He breathed in.

 

“No one can know about this,” he said, “only the three of us.”

 

“No,” Mulder warned him, then went quieter, “Scully can’t know either, we’ll head our own investigation… can I trust you on this?”

 

“Only if you want to.”

 

Mulder patted him on the back and turned back to Scully.

 

“Scully,” he said.

 

She looked up.

 

“We’re gonna look at some preliminary elements,” he told her, “you and Sheriff Truman can handle the rest, right?”

 

“Sure,” she said, “fine, whatever.”

 

Just as Mulder was about to go off and play with his new friend, Scully pulled him in one more time.

 

“The Dark Haired Man told the truth,” she said quietly and sternly, “they turned the truth into a lie… don't trust the blonde imposter.”

 

They stared into each other’s souls, and somehow Mulder knew exactly what she was talking about.

 

The boys ran off.

 

“I like ‘er!” Albert says, zanily.

 

…

 

****

**10:37 P.M.**

 

Night time. Mulder and Albert have been sitting at the table in Mulder’s motel room for quite some time now. About  ten hours in and out.

 

Mismatched documents lie the table surface. Two coffee cups and a near-empty coffee pot give the space an aura of living-in and surefire evidence of hard work.  Of course, still, there’s no evidence to prove any of Mulder’s outlandish theories. Only a few things are certain, as proven by some notes scrawled  into a notepad:

 

_ 1\. ‘Dale Cooper’ is not Dale Cooper. _

_2\. Beware of Bob._

_3\. The Class of ‘89 is of significant importance._

_4\. Only the forces of love and joy can ward off Bob._

_5\. Let not fear and hate enter into thy heart._

_ 6\.  Evil spirits haunt the ghostly woods. _

_7\. The owls are not what they seem._

_8\. The Blonde Imposter is not to be trusted._

_9\. Wonders happen even if we do not believe in them._

_10\. The coffee is damn fine._

 

Albert shrugged for about the millionth time.

 

“What do you know about owls,” he asked, “in your level of expertise?”

 

“Owls are a classic Greek symbol of knowledge,” Mulder explained, “in other cultures, owls are perceived as guardians of the dead.”

 

“What about in modern esoterica?”

 

“Most alien abductees report sightings of owls while under hypnosis.”

 

“So there’s been sightings of owls, just not recovered from hypnotic regression,” Albert thought for a long moment…

 

“Flashes of light,” Mulder added, “like I said, I’m seeing far too many similarities between these events and the ones that transpired in Oregon last year.”

 

“Did you think you two would ever get this far?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I’m surprised you and Agent Scully haven’t been split up as of yet.”

 

“Maybe I’m just too careful.”

 

Albert reflected on this, not sure whether to agree or disagree.

 

“I think I’ll call it a night,” he said.

 

“Yeah, me too,” Mulder replied.

 

Albert took a look at their mess and, before putting anything away, decided to leave it.

 

“We can come back to it tomorrow,” he said, “oh, damn it, tomorrow’s a week day.”

 

“I’ll just call in sick.”

 

“Good idea,” Albert truly did agree, “I think I’ll do the same… but just this once.”

 

He left out the door.

 

“Goodnight,” he said.

 

“G’night.”

 

The door shut in synchronization with Mulder’s flopping onto the bed.

 

…

 

He was back. The Little Man was back.

 

Somehow something was different this time around.  What was it? Oh, of course, the Little Man was reading a nudey magazine;  _ Flesh World _ by the looks of it, though the letters were jumbled.

 

The Little Man kept his eyes peeled like small potatoes on the strangely sticky pages…

 

“Four-six-oh, four-nine-oh, seven-four-six-six; free sex hotline,” he must’ve read from the magazine, and laughed his iconically disgusting laugh again.

 

Mulder attempted to talk, to say “tape”, but just could move his mouth to say “tape”. So he didn’t say “tape” because he couldn’t say “tape”. In other words, his mouth was taped shut. But not with literal tape.

 

The Little Man put down the magazine and turned his attention to Mulder, with a look of epiphany on his face.

 

“I read the book of Exodus today,” he said, “it sucked.”

 

He laughed again. Then his face changed to something more quizzical and deep in thought.

 

“Moses must have been on cocaine or something,” he said with a cocksure smile.

 

Mulder again attempted to speak, but only minuscule mumbles came out. He finally noticed this time and decided to ‘speak’ with the Little Man telepathically. He must have been lucid dreaming, thinking up that idea. He thought, _Where is she? Where is Laura?_

 

Much to his surprise, the Little Man registered this.

 

“Your princess is in another castle,” he said, “mine is red, hers is black.”

 

Mulder literally thought of another question, _Who are you?_

 

The Little Man took some time to answer, as if he didn’t feel at liberty to do so.

 

“I have hidden myself beneath a mask,” he said, “I am a black and terrible god.”

 

The Little Man seemed to be getting a bit bent out of shape at this point, at both Mulder’s incessant questioning and at his own penchant to answer him. He frowned.

 

“Did you receive my message, Agent Mulder?”

 

_The Dark Haired Man told the truth. They turned the truth into a lie. Don’t trust the blonde imposter._

 

The Little Man look up into nothing and rubbed his hands together.

 

“Very good, Agent Scully,” he said.

 

He stopped and focused back on Mulder, perhaps expecting his mind to run again.

 

_Where’s my tape?_

 

“When you come find me,” the Little Man said, “I will return it to you.”

 

Mulder thought not to waste his time staring at nothing, even though he literally was staring at nothing…

 

_I want my sister back._

 

“Your sister?” he asked, legitimately intrigued.

 

_What will it take for you to bring her back?_

 

The Little Man saw this as a grand opportunity to acquire some garmonbozia.

 

“Let us strike a deal, Agent Mulder,” he said, “your sister, for your soul.”

 

Mulder paid no mind to the consequences and implications of this trade-off, and swiftly agreed to go through with it.

 

_What do you expect of me?_

 

“Come find me,” the Little Man said, “then we’ll talk.”

 

_Where can I find you?_

 

“Follow the breadcrumbs,” he said, “follow the breadcrumbs.”

 

He must’ve heard music in the air somewhere, because at some point after saying that, he got up and danced again.

 

In fact, the Little Man made it his staple to dance out of your mind and into your heart.


	4. ACT III

It was morning, Monday morning. Mulder must’ve slept in an extra hour because, from here, he perceived the sky outside as a tad brighter than usual.

 

Also, there was an indistinct banging noise coming from the door.

 

“Coming!” Mulder tried to call out, only to be held back by morning phlegm.

 

He was already dressed, both fortunately and unfortunately. He stumbled for the door, rubbed out his eyes, and opened the door; it was Scully.

 

“Mulder,” she said, and paused, “Mulder, I should’ve told you what I meant by _that_ yesterday.”

 

This woke him up, “You had the same dream I did.”

 

“I know it’s possible,” she started, “but it can’t be, not like this… Mulder did you sleep with your clothes on?”

 

“I was working late enough,” he said.

 

“Mulder, come on, let’s go.”

 

…

 

****

**9:25 A.M.**

 

Back on the road to the Sheriff's Department, coming up  on Falls Avenue, two blocks away from the final destination…

 

“Alright,” Mulder said, “give me the quick rundown on yesterday’s findings.”

 

“Doc Hayward hasn’t said anything different from what Sheriff Truman has previously said.”

 

“Check,” Mulder added.

 

“Ronette Pulaski didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know.”

 

“Did she happen to mention any black substance that smelled like scorched oil?”

 

“You mean scorched oil?”

 

“We can’t confirm that it _was_ scorched oil.”

 

Scully rolled her eyes, but only mentally.

 

“Margaret Lanterman,” she continued, “probably gave the most telling information.”

 

“Alright,” Mulder said, “what did she say?”

 

“When she was seven, she –”

 

“What year was it?” Mulder asked.

 

“1947.”

 

“Roswell,” Mulder said, half-jokingly, making ‘alien’ whistling noises.

 

“It’s uncanny, Mulder,” she continued, “her and two other classmates disappeared into the woods one night and turned up with markings on their body, this writes itself as an X-file near identical to the one in Oregon.”

 

“Do you think Dr. Nemman swooped in to take that off the letter from the doctor?”

 

Dana actually smiled once again, which made Fox smile too.

 

“What did Hawk say?” Mulder asked.

 

“I don’t know,” she replied, “you would know more about that kind of stuff than I do.”

 

“Go ahead,” he said, “come on.”

 

“He talked about the Black Lodge,” she listed, “he talked about how evil spirits feed off pain and sorrow, about passing through a doorway to perfection.”

 

Mulder thought about this again, as something he himself said before.

 

“Scully,” he asked, “do you believe in that stuff… like about the afterlife?”

 

“I mean, I don’t _not_ think about it sometimes,” she said, grasping her cross – it’s gone.

 

“Mulder,” she exclaimed, both annoyed and terrified at the same time.

 

“What is it?”

 

“My cross, my cross,” she looked around her to see if it had fallen. It hadn’t.

 

“Maybe you left it at the motel,” Mulder said.

 

“I never take it off,” Scully pointed out.

 

She looked around a little longer before realizing…

 

“Mulder,” she said, afraid.

 

“What? What is it?”

 

“I gave my cross to the little man in my dream,” she explained, “and I can’t find it… _anywhere_.”

 

Mulder stopped the car, and turned almost his entire body towards her, jaw nearly dropping.

 

“The same thing happened to me… I gave him Phoebe’s tape.”

 

“Mulder,” Scully inquired.

 

Mulder looked around as if checking to see if someone was watching. In a way, there was someone watching.

 

…

 

Mulder and Scully walked into the conference room to find Harry and Albert sitting down and looking over files, photographs, and other ‘evidence’.

 

Hearing them walk in, they both turned to look up at them.

 

“Sheriff Truman,” Mulder started.

 

Harry got up.

 

“Spooky,” Albert also got up, “what the hell happened to you? You’re wearing the same clothes you wore yesterday.”

 

“Jazz night,” Mulder said, “Harry.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

 

“I need you to take me to the Black Lodge.”

 

Harry slumped down, “No, I’m not taking that risk.”

 

“The truth is out there in those woods,” Mulder said, louder.

 

“The Black Lodge is not a place of _truth_ , Agent Mulder,” Hawk said from Mulder’s left side.

 

“I need to know where it is,” Mulder said, “I’ll go by myself if I have to.”

 

“None of us are going anywhere near those woods,” Harry said, getting closer to Mulder, nearly touching his chest.

 

“I don’t have to ask your permission,” Mulder made the same motion.

 

The tension between them reached a new high, one that skyrocketed from close to no interaction.

 

Before anything got any more heated, both Albert and Hawk stepped in to keep the two titans away from each other.

 

“Let it go,” they both said at some point.

 

“Agent Mulder,” Scully snapped, taking on a tone quite unlike any Mulder had previously heard her use.

 

Mulder shook off Albert’s grip and walked out into the hallway.

 

Scully went out after him.

 

“Mulder,” she said, “Mulder, stop.”

 

They stopped in the middle of the hallway and stared down at each other.

 

Dana looked as if she were on the verge of shedding tears.

 

“Mulder,” she said, “I know… I _know_ finding Samantha is the most important thing in the world to you… you treat it like it’s your purpose.”

 

“It _is_ my purpose, Dana,” Fox told her.

 

“And what if you do find her,” Dana asked, “what will be your purpose then?”

 

Fox knew he couldn’t answer because he  _had_ no answer.

 

“You can’t rely on your understanding alone forever,” Dana told him, “we’re only human.”

 

“I’ve _never_ been this close,” Fox pointed out and to her, “you felt that too.”

 

“Only because I followed you,” she said, “I followed you because I wanted to believe you were right.”

 

“Did you believe?”

 

She said nothing. He said nothing. But they told each other everything through nothing.

 

…

 

****

**12:34 P.M.**

 

The motel room. Mulder stands over the dial-up phone, trying to remember the phone number that the Little Man mentioned in his dream.

 

When he felt he had the right number, he picked up and dialed:

 

_460-490-7466_

 

It rung… rung… rung… clicked –

 

“Hello?” a deep, dark voice came from the other line.

 

“Hello,” Mulder answered, “who is this?”

 

“Agent Mulder?” the voice asked.

 

“How do you know who I am?” Mulder asked, stunned.

 

“I’m in the Black Lodge,” the voice said, “with Dale Cooper.”

 

“Cooper?”

 

“Follow the breadcrumbs… follow the breadcrumbs...”

 

Just as the Little Man said.

 

“What breadcrumbs?”

 

“Not breadcrumbs,” the voice said, “blood… follow the trail of blood.”

 

“Why,” Mulder wondered, “who’s bleeding?”

 

“You will for one...”

 

“Who is this?” Mulder asked again, “Hey!”

 

“Windom Earle,” the voice said, and laughed childishly.

 

“You should be dead,” Mulder revealed to the voice.

 

“Why would Ronald tell you about our souls if you weren’t well on your path to finding us?”

 

“Ronald? Who’s souls? Hello?”

 

“Bring the girl.”

 

“Hey, where are you?”

 

The line already cut.

 

“Damn it,” Mulder cursed under his breath.

 

…

 

Harry was back in his office again, drinking again. It was routine, anyway.

  
A few seconds after taking another swig, Hawk walked in to try to comfort Harry in light of the earlier incident.

 

“You drink not because you are thirsty,” Hawk said, “but because you have nothing left to do _but_ drink.”

 

“Not you now, Hawk,” Harry slurred.

 

Hawk came in closer.

 

“You’ve dug your own grave, Harry,” he said, “one day you will perish in it.”

 

“Let me.”

 

“That’s _not_ what friends are for,” Hawk argued, “you wouldn’t let your friends an inch too close to danger… _that’s_ what friends are for.”

 

Harry sighed again, “I’ll never know how she died.”

 

“Pretty soon we’ll be saying the same things about you.”

 

“What’s wrong with me, Hawk?”

  
“In this time, you are a man of pain and sorrow,” Hawk said, “be weary, for that is the path to the threshold of the Black Lodge’s door.”

 

“Do you see that in Agent Mulder?”

 

“Yes,” Hawk said, “I do… I see it in all of us.”

 

“Then what do you want me to do?”

 

“I want you to want to live.”

 

…

 

The three agents were on the edge, the brink of insanity. Here were thousands of pages of documents proving something – but what? Here were witness accounts and testimonies that, in the whole scope of things, made up a sensible story. _But for what purpose?_

 

This had got to be what caused Windom Earle to lose himself. No question. All the connections between the Black Lodge and Project Blue Book, had Deep Throat’s testimony been truthful, were there and proven. _But what did it all really, truly mean?_

 

Mulder’s heart was set on believing that Windom Earle’s psychosis was caused by psychological trauma relating to whatever it was working on Project Blue Book exposed him to. Perhaps whatever caused selective memory loss in Idahoan test pilots was the same force behind this. _It’s both possible and probable_ , Mulder had insisted, _Ellens Air Force Base is only 400 miles away._

 

Scully considered it a possibility.

 

Albert had no idea what either of them was talking about.

 

It was almost 1 P.M. and Albert’s weariness was starting to come up palpable. At times he was even visibly shaking. Or perhaps that was just from the caffeine.

 

“I think I’m going out tonight,” Mulder said out of nowhere.

 

“Where?” Scully asked, looking up from her report.

 

“The woods,” Mulder got up and went for his coat.

 

“Mulder,” Albert said, “we really should be packing up soon, or else the Bureau’s gonna _make us_ pack up.”

 

“I won’t be out there long.”  
  
Three quick knocks. Mulder was heading out anyway.  
  
He opened to see two worried eyes and a stubby log.

 

“Margaret,” Mulder said, pleasantly surprised yet equally bewildered.

 

“I want to help you,” she said.

 

“Come in,” Mulder let her in.

 

Scully and Albert looked up and exchanged a glance.

 

“Margaret Lanterman,” Scully said, almost asking if it was actually her.

 

Mulder pointed out a chair for Margaret to take a seat. He sat on the side of the bed facing her.

 

“The scar,” Mulder asked politely, “can I see it?”

 

Margaret was silent for a moment, clutching her log, and making eye contact with all three of them. She nodded lightly, set her log on her lap, and lifted her leggings discretely to reveal a pattern on the back of her knee.

 

Mulder peered closer…  
  
The pattern resembled two mountain peaks on the horizon and three diamond shapes running vertical and crossing between the peaks down the middle, creating a vague cross.

 

When Mulder looked up, Margaret lowered her leggings.

 

“Do you remember experiencing any time loss when this happened?”

 

Margaret shrugged.

 

“I was seven,” she said, “it was the middle of the night, I don’t know what time it was.”

 

“Do you remember if there was anyone who may have wanted to hurt you?”

 

“No,” she said, trying to remember.

 

“Have you ever tried hypnotic regression therapy?”

 

“Yes,” she admitted, “but I couldn’t remember anything except…”

 

“Except what?” Mulder asked with heightened interest.

 

“I heard an owl,” she said, “I heard it again the night my husband died.”

 

Mulder turned to Albert, who wrote it down, then turned back.  
  
“Is there anyone who may have wanted to hurt your husband?” he asked.

 

“No,” she said, “it was an accident… but there was this feeling I had that it was no _accident_.”

 

Mulder tried to think of why this was… the ‘scorched oil’?

 

“Do you know where your husband found that oil?”

 

“Only the general area,” she said before putting her hand on her log and making an expression which suggested deep thought.

 

Mulder became equals parts fascinated and concerned.

 

“My log,” Margaret said.

 

“Did your log… what did your log say?”

 

Margaret struggled…

 

“Follow the breadcrumbs… bring the girl… the owls are not what they seem.”

 

Everyone seemed to look at each other for a while…

 

“I’m going out there,” Mulder said, getting up off the bed and pulling up his jacket, “come on, Scully.”

 

“Why?” Scully asked.

 

“We’ll see when we get there,” Mulder said, almost out the door, “Margaret, around where did your husband find that oil?”

 

“South of Blue Pine Mountain,” she said, near-hesitant, “Agent Mulder...”

 

“I know what I’m doing,” Mulder said, out the door.

 

“Mulder,” Scully called, following him outside.

 

Margaret followed them both.

 

“Mulder.”

 

Mulder turned around too look down at her. Her arms were crossed again.

 

They both stopped.

 

“If this is it, I can’t not take this chance,” Mulder explained.

 

“Mulder, you can’t –”

 

“This could be it,” Fox interjected, “and if it is, I _have to do this_.”

 

Dana thought for a while which seemed to last a lifetime. Maybe it did.

 

“So you’re just going to abandon me?”

 

“We’ll go together.”

 

Dana thought more, then turned to see Margaret, who said nothing in her own words.

 

…

 

The three of them were in the sedan, driving down Highway J. Margaret sat in the front with her log. The forest was denser here, the highway just about brushing up against Ghostwood.

 

About another quarter mile up the road, Margaret pointed vaguely to their left…

 

“Here,” she said.

 

…

 

Glastonbury Grove, just as described in the loose documents – a clearing of scattered dry pine needles, a slight runoff slope coming from the forest, twelve thin, bare sycamores, and in the center a small, shallow circular hole surrounded by a white powder or rock substance and filled with the same black oil that many have since mentioned.

 

“This is it,” Mulder said, “smell that?”

 

The smell – like scorched oil. It wasn’t quite a smell one would want to remember, let alone take in again.

 

Mulder went closer.

 

“Scully,” he said, “take a look at this.”

 

Scully followed him over to the head of the small pool. Mulder squatted and pulled out a pair of disposable medical gloves, snapping them on. Next, he pulled out a small tube with a blank label in one hand and a small metal scrape in the other.

 

The closer he got, the stronger, the hotter, the smell became.

 

Scully was just over his shoulder now as he pulled the scrape out of the pool and quickly contained the oil in the tube. He put the scrape down, closed the lid, and pulled out a pen.

 

“ _Oil.”_

 

“Look familiar, Scully?”

 

Scully came down to his level and peered in closer to the tube of “oil.”

 

It was innocuous, only black and thick as refined oil should be. But when Mulder shook the tube, it thinned and lost its color before settling again.

 

“It’s probably the same thing we saw in Alaska,” he said.

 

“But what would this much of it be doing out here?”

 

Mulder was already taking pictures at this time.

 

“Maybe those worms were the mediator for some kind of a symbiosis,” Mulder theorized, “it _would_ explain the irrational behavior exhibited by the living host, us, and the actions that lead Leland Palmer to kill his own daughter.”

 

“But Mulder,” Scully interjected, “a mediator between us and what?”

 

“I don’t know, Scully, some kind of ethereal entity,” he said, “or some kind of Dweller on the Threshold?”

 

“There’s no evidence to suggest that Leland Palmer was hosting a parasitic worm,” Scully cleared up, “we have pictures to prove it.”

 

“I like that, Scully,” Mulder said, the flash snapping at the oil, “what are your theories?”

 

“Well,” Scully said, stumped.

 

Mulder lowered the camera and approached her.

 

“You can’t rule out demonic possession,” he said, “but being a scientist, you have to… you sure you picked the right career path?”

 

He went back to taking pictures.

 

Scully turned to Margaret, who looked back at her.

 

“Satan’s tried to kill me more times than I can count,” she said, then whispered, “I think my log is in on that conspiracy.”

 

When it seemed Mulder was done with the photo shoot, he came back up to Scully.

 

“Eh,” he sounded disappointed, “the door’s not opening… I’ll try again at night.”

 

“What are you going to do now?” Scully asked.

 

Mulder held up the tube near Scully’s face.

 

“I’m bringing this back to the expert,” he said, then, in a mockingly creepy voice, “I will make your wicked soul worm food.”

 

Scully just sighed, arms akimbo.

 

…

 

“This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen...”

 

Albert was deep in observation of the strange oil, hunched over a lamp shining over the tube in his hands, making his hands appear pale and the hairs on them fiery.

 

Forensics instruments were laid out on the table. The process of using everything on the table to help determine exactly what the black substance was was one that would’ve taken a few hours. And it showed; it was nighttime already.

 

Mulder was close to Albert at all times, peering over his shoulder at the moment.

 

“...why bring this to me?” he asked.

 

Mulder backed away.

 

“You _are_ the expert, right?” Mulder asked mockingly.

 

“Well, what do you want, my expert opinion?”

 

Mulder moved away from the table.

 

“Of course, I do,” he said.

  
“Okay,” Albert started, “it’s organic, not unusual about petroleum oil, but...”

 

“What?”

 

“There isn’t a large petroleum oil supply in at least a hundred miles from here,” Albert explained overdramatically, “and its smell suggests it’s past the burning process.”

 

“It’s scorched oil, so what,” Mulder said, “but it’s not scorched oil, I know because I’ve seen this before.”

 

“I admit,” Albert explained, as if afraid to tick off Mulder, “I’m seeing an unusual amount of organic activity in used motor oil… what is this?”

 

“It’s a neurotransmitter.”

 

“I don’t think this is what made Cooper and the others snap,” Albert said, “there’s something else at work here.”

 

“And if so, than _this_ is how they did it.”

 

“I mean… sure, if I’m gonna keep an open mind, I guess it’s possible.”

 

Mulder nodded, “I’m gonna try my luck out again.”

 

He went to grab his jacket and head out.

 

Albert could only sit and stare in wonder and confusion at how utterly screwed they all were.

 

“Mulder?” Albert asked.

 

Mulder turned back, the door at his hand.

 

“You wouldn’t mind taking this back, will ya?” Albert said, holding out the tube.

 

“Keep it,” Mulder said.

 

Albert didn’t stop his friend from leaving, not because he didn’t think he would get hurt, but because he knew trying to stop the man from executing his crusade would end bad for _both_ of them. Albert intended to head back to Philadelphia in the morning anyway, so might as well pack and chat with Scully.

 

It was cold outside, the autumn leaves danced in and out of the dark, caught up in whirlwinds like people in each other’s lives, ultimately heading nowhere but somewhere.

 

At about the same time Mulder opened the sedan’s door, Scully came out from her room. Mulder stopped to talk to her.

 

“Scully,” he said, walking up to her, “I’m going back out into the woods, I want you to come with me.”

 

“Mulder,” she said aimlessly.

 

The wind was picking up, whistling in itself and through the old woods like the ghosts they were.

 

“Just one last time, put your life on the line for me,” Mulder said, “next time I’ll do the same for you.”

 

“And what if next time is too soon?”

 

“Then I guess we’d be even.”

 

Before Scully could respond, a noise came from the woods. It wasn’t the wind, it was too distinct. It sounded like a whisper, a human whisper.

 

They both looked in its direction to see in the distance among the woods and wayward leaves, just out of the dark to see yet too far in to see clearly, a tall man in a black suit.

 

Dale Cooper.

 

When he knew they saw him, he ran.

 

“Hey!” Mulder shouted, “Come on, Scully.”

 

They hurried into the car, pulled out, and gave chase.

 

…

 

They were south of Blue Pine Mountain on Highway J now.

 

Somehow, Cooper had been able to evade them at every turn and end up a hundred feet ahead, as if he were materializing in and out of space and time. But Cooper wasn’t known to do that.

 

“I know where he’s headed,” Mulder said.

 

Scully knew too, they had been there earlier.

 

They stopped at the head of the trail leading to Glastonbury Grove.

  
…

 

The thickening forest proved much harder to travel through when in a hurry, as well as in a terrible windstorm when all the leaves were free to fly. It would only get worse.

 

“Hey!” they both yelled one after the other, several times.

 

A fallen tree, a small clearing, a stumble and fall.

 

Scully leaned down to help Mulder up when they both heard from the treetops a low and horrible groan – a hoot.

 

A large owl stared down on them from a high-up branch, its countenance illuminated by the moon, its sharp eyes bleeding into theirs. It looked upon them as if to greet them, yet its sight was not quite welcoming. It only stared for a moment until hooting again and looking back up into the darkened sky, and back at them.

 

They had arrived.

 

…

 

Nothing changed about the grove, only now it was illuminated by darkness.

 

The wind slowed down, almost stopped, came back up again, and slowed again. The night became near silent again, with only faint whispering coming around the corners of the woods, conversations between the old trees.

 

Fox had never been more afraid in his entire life, save only for the moment he’d realized Samantha had gone.

 

Fear opened the door, and Fox came to the threshold.

 

A red curtain draped over the dark shadow of the sycamores and rested at the foot of unpure Purity.

 

His hands wavered for just a moment as they ran against the crimson doorway, slipping himself out of reality and into eternity.

 

From here, Dana could only watch in horror as her friend dared to return himself to ashes.

 

She lay down on the ground and waited.

 

…

 

Something was different. Something was new. Same floor, same curtains, and similar statue at the end of it all. Only now this place was a hallway, a new place to run through.

 

Mulder looked left and then right, then entered stage right.

 

Back in the room, the vestibule between what’s real and what they want you to think is real.

 

Everything’s the same: the furniture, the lamps, the statue…

 

The Little Man was not sitting, he was standing, center-stage, turned away from Mulder.

 

Only now did he turn to face him.

 

Mulder came close, closer…

 

The Little Man smiled, and held up Phoebe’s tape, the cross wrapped around it. He wanted Mulder to take it, take it back.

 

“I danced to the music,” he said, “but only a short time.”

 

Mulder held out his hand and took the tape and cross. He said nothing, not knowing that he could talk _here_ now that he _was here_.

 

The Little Man held up a finger and opened his mouth wide and excited, as if remembering a fact he’d learned earlier that day… day… day? _Day?_

 

“Heaven’s door shut on tobacco makers,” he said, as if warning.

 

Feeling he could breathe, Mulder ignored the Little Man’s trivial trivia and began to speak directly to him…

 

“Where is she?” he asked.

 

The Little Man thought and then seemed to remember.

  
“We had a deal, didn’t we?” he asked.

 

He stepped aside and held out his hand to introduce someone – “Laura.”

 

“Laura,” Mulder said, exhausted and relieved.

 

Not-Laura stared, smiled, and began talking in the Little Man’s accent.

 

“Agent Mulder,” she said, then stopped.

 

“Laura,” Mulder said again, still in a daze, then turned to the Little Man, “let her go.”

 

“Laura Palmer is dead,” the Little Man said, “but you can still save your sister… Samantha.”

 

“I will,” Mulder said.

 

The Little Man must’ve been surprised at how quickly Mulder accepted his awfully one-sided offer.

 

“But if I can’t have Laura too,” Mulder continued, “then I want Dale Cooper.”

 

“Dale Cooper does not belong to me,” the Little Man said, “but nonetheless I will honor our trade agreement: your soul for Samantha’s.”

 

“I want to see her,” Mulder said, “just one last time.”

 

The Little Man seemed to be losing his patience, and held out his hand, his index finger and thumb clenching a gold ring with a jade, a symbol engraved onto it.

 

“The soul, Agent Mulder,” he said.

 

Mulder took the ring.

 

“With this ring,” the Little Man said, “I thee –”

 

The Little Man stopped, horrified at some sight in Mulder’s eyes. He backed away and walked out behind the curtain.

 

Mulder clenched his fist and stood in silent rage.

 

“Agent Mulder,” a dark, growling voice called out from behind.

 

Mulder turned around to face a man in a black suit – Dale Cooper.

 

But something was different about this Cooper. His eyes were foggy, glassy, as if he had suffered severe cataracts.

 

He smiled, then grinned. He came closer.

 

“Don’t listen to him,” he said, “he can’t save your Samantha… I can even save Laura.”

 

“What do I have to do?”

 

Not-Cooper looked down at his hand, which he raised so that Mulder could see inside the palm.

 

Inside his palm was a moving liquid – the oil.

 

He looked up at Mulder again and smiled.

 

“Did you bring the girl?” he asked.

 

“She’s outside,” Mulder replied.

 

“I will come back for her,” Not-Cooper said, “only then can I bring back Laura.”

 

Fox thought to himself for what seemed like forever, deciding on the outcome of this unfolding conundrum.

 

One on hand, Fox wanted the truth about his sister. On the other, he wanted to give Laura the chance to be whole again. He loved them both, and knowing he’d be doing good on both of their cases, he thought it worth it to give up his own life for them.

 

But what about Dana? Would she really give her life for the life of a child? Why wouldn’t anyone? That only makes sense.

 

But Laura had her time. But Samantha must be dead, that’s the truth, and so that should solve all Fox’s problems! But then what’s the point? But Laura was a whore! Don’t trust the Blonde Imposter!

 

Not-Cooper still wasn’t blonde, so…

 

Before Mulder could come up with a ‘solution’, the Little Man had returned, a bit worried at the sight of the other man.

 

To this unwarranted entrance, Not-Cooper’s face turned from an evil smile to a furious grimace.

 

“The ring!” the Little Man called out.

 

Mulder looked in his hand, at the ring, and remembered something about a wedding.

 

In an instant, Mulder slipped on the ring, falling to his knees when all feeling was lost in his left arm. At the exact same moment, Not-Cooper growled and hissed in Mulder’s face and screamed. It was a deafening screech that almost sounded nonhuman.

 

Mulder shut his eyes and ears and, when he opened up again, the foggy-eyed imposter was gone.

 

The Little Man smiled again.

 

“I sealed the chaos,” he said, “will not be broken this time.”

 

He paused again, readying himself for something.

 

“Observe the blood,” he said, “the rose tattoo...”

 

Mulder didn’t know exactly what to do.

 

“...of the fingerprints,” he continued, “on me from you.”

 

Mulder looked at his finger – it was bleeding. He looked at the Little Man’s finger – it was _stained_ with blood.

 

“Souls,” the Little Man said.

 

“Samantha’s life for mine,” Mulder said, “but I want to say goodbye.”

 

The Little Man’s anger just about washed over him again before he contained it below the surface.

 

“You need to learn to accept that this is it,” he said.

 

Mulder shook his head and raised his voice, “I need to see her.”

 

The Little Man only shook his head.

 

Mulder’s patience was just about lost as of yet, and the Little Man could sense it.

 

“You know,” Mulder said, “I don’t think you are who you say you are.”

 

He quickly took the ring off his finger and feeling returned to his left arm, relieving him greatly, yet doing nothing to relieve him of his fears or worries about never seeing Samantha again.

 

The Little Man had finally had it.

 

"You sing as if you deserve or are entitled to something from me. Who gave you that idea?

I have never had the gall or hubris to even expect anything from God and yet you pout if I

do not give you what y–”

 

He was distracted, looking up and around at the ‘ceiling’.

 

“God is now here,” he said.

 

When about a moment and a half passed by, he looked back at Mulder…

 

“Fire walk with me.”

 

…

 

Scully had waited a good half-hour for Mulder to come back out of the Lodge.

 

It was already 1 A.M.

 

Just as she was about to abandon hope and leave Mulder behind, she saw a familiar figure approaching from behind the pines.

 

“Hello,” she called out.

 

“Dana,” a voice called out, Albert’s voice.

 

“Albert,” Scully called out.

 

Albert quickened his pace.

 

As Scully saw him approach, she could make out that he was carrying something, a coat or a blanket.

 

“When you didn’t come back,” Albert said, “I figured you were in trouble… I came prepared… poor thing.”

 

He wrapped the blanket around Scully and brought her over to the side of a log. He held her in his arms.

 

“Where’s Mulder?” he asked, having to keep his volume a tad higher over the wind.

 

“I don’t know,” she said.

 

“I’ll take you back to the motel,” Albert said, “I’ll come back for Mulder.”

 

“No,” Scully insisted, “I’m staying.”

 

Albert didn’t protest, and stared into the wind and dark.

 

…

 

It was morning, Tuesday morning. Scully must’ve fallen asleep in Albert’s arms, as she had woken up first. Her tired eyes looked up expecting nothing, but indeed saw something.

 

It seemed that high-clearance government officials had made it before anyone else. Men in suits surrounded the area, some wearing hardhats. Yellow crime scene tape was being pulled out around the area. Sedans and SWAT trucks were parked up close, as well as an ambulance. Light conversations, radio chatter, and other strange noises accompanied the eyesore.

 

Scully was in shock, and could only move herself to tap Albert to wake up.

 

The two out-of-luck agents found themselves surrounded by their peers without a convincing and legal explanation for why they were there. They stood.

 

Albert looked up and around for who may have been in charge.

 

“Hey!” he called to a group of men in suits talking.

 

One of them happened to be Roger Hardy, the Internal Affairs agent with the thick, round glasses and not-so-pleasant temper.

 

Right next to him was Joseph McGrath, the slightly overweight OPR member and perhaps Mulder’s biggest critic.

 

Another was the Blevins look-alike who asked all the obvious questions. He was the first to notice Albert’s call.

 

They seemed to be headed by the chain smoker.

 

“Come on,” Albert told Scully, pulling her along over the others.

 

Scully was too embarrassed to face them, yet decided she had no choice.

 

“Agent Rosenfield,” Hardy said bitterly, “Agent Scully...”

 

The others scattered; except for the three familiars, and one or two non-familiars.

 

“You two better have a damned good explanation for all this.”

 

“Trust me,” Albert said sarcastically, “we do.”

 

Hardy must’ve had a very different sense of humor.

 

A bit increased chatter coming from behind them prompted the others to turn, seeing Mulder emerge from nowhere.

 

“Son of a bitch,” McGrath exclaimed.

 

“Mulder,” Scully called.

 

Albert tried holding her close to him as to not upset the others.

 

“Scully,” was all Mulder could say… until he saw the others…

 

“You,” he said bitterly, approaching quicker, perhaps intending to get in a scuffle.

 

Perhaps it was the rough night that made him stop, or perhaps it was Scully and Albert’s protest against him from acting out.

 

Still, he faced them.

 

“You know what’s out there, don’t you” he said, “you can’t hide it forever, the truth will come out.”

 

He looked right at the smoking man and pointed an accusing finger.

 

“And you,” he said, “you knew _everything_ that was going to happen, you –”

 

“Agent Mulder,” McGrath scolded loudly, “do you have any _idea_ what kind of trouble –”

 

Before he could embarrass _himself_ , the smoking man put his hand against his chest to signal him to stop.

 

“Well,” Hardy said, “looks like we’ve got _a lot_ of paperwork to sign.”

 

They started off.

 

“Mulder,” Scully said, “I’m sorry.”

 

Mulder didn’t say anything, only took out of his pocket the golden cross and gave it back to Scully.

 

…

 

“What exactly were you hoping to accomplish, Agent Mulder?”

 

All this… the interrogation room, Hardy… none of it could really get to Mulder.

 

“Finding the truth about my sister,” Mulder answered honestly.

 

On the other side of the one-way mirror, Scully stood with her arms crossed next to the usual suspects: Scott Blevins, Joseph McGrath, Blevins’ butt buddy, and the guy who couldn’t not have lung cancer already. There may have been other people there too.

 

“I read the X-file, Agent Mulder,” Hardy said harshly, “ _this_ has nothing to do with that.”  
  
“If you’re going to indict me,” Mulder said, almost mocking Hardy, “you better have a damned good reason to.”

 

Hardy sensed it.

 

“And what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean, Agent Mulder?”

 

Hardy leaned in over the desk.

 

“If you _did_ read any of those files,” Mulder explained, “you’d know exactly what kind of connections are running here.”

 

“Being pedantic won’t help your case, Agent Mulder.”

 

Hardy argued without giving an argument.

 

“You need to walk into that OPR meeting and give an exact – an _exact_ – reason why the Bureau shouldn’t suspend you on grounds that they themselves find fully rightful and just.”

 

Mulder shrugged.

 

“Or was it not in your fault, but rather the fault of your partner… Agent Scully?”

 

Scully, who was on the other side of the one-way mirror, looked up when she heard this. Mulder had the same look on his face, one of innocent worry.

 

“You wouldn’t suspend Scully, would you?”

 

“All options are on the table,” Hardy said, “the only reason why you’re not long gone is because you were the best damn profiler in the BSU in your time… there’s _still_ a high-profile career ahead of you should you choose to accept it, and I, for one, _highly_ recommend you consider it.”

 

Mulder looked up at him strangely, as if questioning his morality in regard to friendship.

 

“No,” Mulder answered, “that’s my answer.”

 

Hardy was shocked to say the least, but made little effort to let this be shown.

 

“Are you serious?”

 

On the other side of the mirror, Scully saw the smoking man whisper something into Blevins’ ear. He nodded, and they left. Scully and some others stayed behind.

 

…

 

It’s Thursday morning. It’s earlier than usual.

 

“Progress… progress,”

 

Scully felt she was in the same place she was when this all started: in Blevins’ office getting lectured on her ‘purpose’.

 

“Is there anything you want to add,” Blevins asked, “to your report?”

 

“No,” she said.

 

“Nothing at all?” Blevins asked to be sure.

 

“No,” Scully said again, “that’s it.”

 

Blevins looked over at his colleague, who wrote something down, and sighed.

 

“Well,” he said, “it’s been fun… for the most part.”

 

Scully didn’t say anything because, frankly, she didn’t agree.

 

“You will from now on be under the supervision of Assistant Director Walter Skinner.”

 

Scully had low expectations of this Skinner character, expecting a cold, controlling establishment hustler who would do everything in his power to stop Mulder from pursuing the truth.

 

Of course, she hadn’t yet met him so she really had no reason yet to be worried.

 

“Cheer up, Agent Scully,” Blevins said, “this isn’t your fault.”

 

“As a matter of fact, sir,” she replied, “it is, I’m responsible for my own actions.”

 

Blevins and his man exchanged another puzzled look.

 

“Well,” he said, “if there’s anything you need, anything at all, you know where to find me.”

 

She had no intention of coming back _here_.

 

“Thank you,” she said, as she departed.

 

The door shut, it was safe to talk.

 

“What do you want me to do with this report?” the other man asked.

 

“Burn it,” Blevins said, still staring at the door.

 

…

 

Scully made her way down the hall, out past open doorways and agents coming and going.

 

She was upset, more so than most times. It wasn’t because of the change, it was because she was starting to feel what it was like to be in Mulder’s shoes. If only just for a little bit.

 

It wasn’t long until a familiar face popped up among the small crowd.

 

It was the smoking man, and he was moving fast towards Blevins’ office.

 

Scully saw him coming, ten feet away.

 

“Hey,” she called out, yet quiet enough regarding how close he was.

 

He squeezed around her in the tight hallway, and her eyes followed him.

 

His back kept turned, but he stopped.

 

He turned around and faced her.

 

Dana had nothing to say. She was on the verge of crying and needed to talk to someone, to tell them she wasn’t alright and to be told that everything _was going to be alright_.

 

_He_ said nothing. He stared too.

 

But for one moment in an infinitude of moments, she saw humanity in his eyes. Perhaps because his face matched hers.

 

Maybe it’s not what he  _actually_ thought, but in her mind, she imagined he was thinking exactly what she had hoped he was thinking:

 

_Everything is going to be alright._

 

She smiled and they departed.

 

…

 

Mulder was sitting at his desk when Scully finally walked in.

 

“Hi,” she said.

 

Mulder just sat in silence, head resting in his hand on the desk, staring at the tape in his other hand.

 

Scully approached from the side and sat against the desk.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

  
“Don’t be,” Mulder assured her, eyes turned away, “it was my fault anyway.”

 

He readjusted, his eyes staying on the tape at all times.

 

“You never listened to it,” Scully concluded, paying close attention to Mulder’s blank expression.

 

He only shook his head… _no_.

 

“Not until I have good reason to,” he revealed, then looked up at her, “and I mean _absolutely_.”  


Scully agreed silently, though she still didn’t quite ‘get’ his reasoning. Perhaps she never would.

  
“I know it hasn’t been easy,” Scully said, “nothing’s been easy… not for me either.”

 

“You must really regret being my partner.”

 

“No, I don’t.”  


“You know,” Mulder admitted, “you’re only one of two people in this building that I trust.”

 

Scully didn’t reply, instead…

 

“So we’re both sorry?”

 

“I’m sorry… I didn’t want any of this for you.”

 

Scully understood, and turned her attention to what Mulder was looking at on the bulletin board.

 

“I loved her, Scully.”

 

She put her hand on his shoulder.

 

“Gone too young,” Fox continued, “where do you think she is?”

 

Dana really had to think about this.

 

“Maybe we’ll see her again,” Dana said, “then you can ask her.”  
  
Fox wanted to believe…

 

_Ring… ring…_

 

Mulder picked up and Scully looked aside.

 

“Mulder,” he answered, and listened, “hey, actually I kind of wanted to talk to you… where?”

 

Mulder pulled out a pen and paper and wrote something down.

 

“Okay,” he said, and laughed lightly, “okay, great, see ya… good to talk to you too, see you there, bye.”

 

He hung up, and got up, exhilarated.

 

“Come on, Scully,” he said, “let’s get going.”

 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

 

“Jewelry store robbery.”

 

Fox turned around one more time to touch the bulletin board.

 

They headed out…

 

“Wait,” Scully said in the distance, “what’s going on, Mulder?”

 

“Wait ‘till you see.”

 

The door shut.

 

The office was empty.

 

There’s something on the bulletin board…

 

It’s familiar, it’s calling out…

 

Rising, rising, a crescendo.

 

A picture. Of a girl. Blonde hair, blue eyes.

 

It’s Laura.

 

She’s so beautiful.

 

She’s gone. But never forgotten.

 

 

****

**EXECUTIVE PRODUCER  
CHRIS CARTER**

 

****

**In Loving Memory Of**

****

**WARREN FROST**

****

**June 5, 1925 – February 17, 2017**

 

****

**For MICHAEL.**


End file.
